the road to you was a mistake well made
by tofuparty
Summary: Rachel/Jesse. Due to a mix-up in college roommate assignments, Rachel is forced to room with Jesse St. James, of all people. And he can be as charming as he wants: she's not going to fall for him a second time. Really. So her friends can shut up now.


**Title:** the road to you (was a mistake well made)  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairings/Characters:** Jesse/Rachel  
**Warnings:** None  
**Word count:** 4,500  
**Disclaimer:** This _Glee_ fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.  
**Summary:** Future-fic. Due to a mix-up in college roommate assignments, Rachel is forced to room with Jesse St. James, of all people. And he can be as charming as he wants: she's not going to fall for him a _second_ time. Really. So her friends can shut up now.  
**A/N:** Profuse and undying thanks to ipleadthe5thlivejournal for beta. 

This is her course of action, in chronological order, after she gets her acceptance letter in the mail:

#1 Make a trip to Kinkos, to laminate said acceptance letter;  
#2 Purchase an expensive, gold-gilded frame for the letter, and hang it on her wall;  
#3 Inform her dads, who will exhibit appropriate levels of enthusiasm and joy;  
#4 Telephone every member of Glee Club to announce her good news, who will also (hopefully) exhibit appropriate levels of enthusiasm and joy.

(Okay, so maybe the last one will be a bit of a stretch, but - well, she can hope, right?)

Anyway, she executes her plan, and it all goes fairly smoothly until the middle of #3, when one of her dads coughs a little and says "so, Rachel. There's one issue here."

"Yes?" she says, smiling brightly, because _nothing_ they could say at this point could harsh her mellow -

"You can't sign up for a single," he says.

"What?" She's still smiling.

"We've both discussed this," he says, nodding to her other dad who smiles a little anxiously. "And we think it would be best for you to try living with another person."

She briefly envisions her possible future roommates. Perhaps a disgustingly attractive sorority hopeful. Perhaps a foul-breathed slob who will keep unholy hours and leave Dorito dust on the carpet. Perhaps a perfectly friendly, unassuming, easygoing individual who listens to _The Jonas Brothers_.

All her possible futures are looking rather bleak.

"But we have the _money_," she says plaintively. She barely stops herself from stomping a foot. "And it's not that much more expensive!"

"Yes, but," and they're very tactful, "We think it would be best, you see, if you learned to live with someone else."

There's a lot more yammering on her parents' behalf about cooperation and companionship and independence and all that jazz, but what Rachel gleans from it is that she is not going to have a single. She is not going to have a single. She is not going -

"You know," her dad says thoughtfully, "there's a chance you might even _like_ your future roommate."

She hadn't thought of that.

"You could even rope in a future fan," her other dad says in a cajoling tone.

She leaves the conversation feeling mildly placated, but worried nonetheless. Naturally it would be a delight to have a roommate who could appreciate her musical prowess, but prior experience has taught her that she'd likely end up with someone who emphatically _wouldn't_. Of course, it is _college_, which is chalked up to be a great deal better than high school, but still. There are risks.

Kurt is the first person she calls. She's pretty sure she hears him mutter something like _that poor, unfortunate soul_, but before she can call him out on it he smoothly segues into, "It's not like you have no control over your future roommate. They give you housing applications where you can mark some of your preferences."

Huh.

(She's mentally cataloguing her requests already.)

"You know, Kurt, I hadn't even thought of that," she says. Kurt is proving to be a valuable friend. "That was very observant of you."

"Stating the obvious," says Kurt, and hangs up abruptly. She stares at her phone for a moment, then shrugs. Oh, well. She's used to that.

X University Undergraduate Housing Application  
Student Status: Freshman  
Major: Voice  
Please tell us a little bit about yourself to help us match you with a roommate:

What type of music do you predominately listen to?  
_I am highly perturbed that "Showtunes" is not an option on your list of possible music preferences._

I spend a lot of time with my friends. **Never** / Seldom / Occasionally / Always  
_Addendum: my answer to this may change. I shall need to acquire some first._

I study/fall asleep to background noise. **Never** / Seldom / Occasionally / Always  
_Addendum: again, maintaining full concentration on any one task is essential to success. However, the roommate must allow me four hours of vocal warm-ups and rehearsing in our room every day. (Rest assured that it should be a treat for anyone who may overhear me.) I am willing to make the same allowances for said roommate as long as a full schedule is given to me in advance (please also provide an i-Cal download)._

How often do you play video games? **Never** / Seldom / Occasionally / Always  
_Addendum: I am not a phillistine._

Is there any other information about yourself / your preferences for a roommate(s) that you feel we should know about before placing you? Please use the space provided below to explain.

_This sixteen-square-inch space is deplorably insufficient; please refer to 32-page essay attached to this sheet._

It's early August when she receives the email. Her future roommate is the daughter of a well-to-do moist towelette tycoon named Michaela, aged nineteen, from New York City. They meet up for lunch at a fashionable cafe in downtown Manhattan; Michaela is quiet and tidy and is friendly with a few people on Broadway. Rachel could not have asked for a better roommate. She's over the moon.

Which is why when she waltzes into her room, luggage in hand, and is greeted with the sight of Jesse St. James unpacking his bags, she's caught pretty off-guard.

It's possible that she screams. Maybe.

The residence hall coordinator has had to deal with plenty of people complaining about their roommates. Plenty of girls accusing the other of thievery or accessing their private information or spilling beer all over the carpet or stealing their boyfriends. She's listened to complaints on a frequent basis.

She's never encountered someone quite like Rachel Berry and, as God is her witness, hopes fervently that she never will again.

" - and," Rachel continues, "As this mix-up is _entirely_ the fault of the university's, don't think for a moment that you won't be receiving a strongly worded letter from my fathers, and quite possibly a lawsuit -"

She's been talking for more than an hour but her voice hasn't cracked a bit. The RH director is mildly impressed.

(She thinks it might be a bad idea to tell Rachel that the computer system matched them up quite perfectly, gender aside.)

"- and to top the proverbial sundae, I have to room with this sneaky, underhanded buffoon!"

"Hey," Jesse says mildly.

There's a lot of finagling and calling up other university administrators and dealing with red tape and finally the RH director says (and her hair is definitely more frazzled than it was three hours ago), "As this was a mix-up on the university's behalf, we can reduce your dorm costs by seventy-five percent, but we cannot find you a new roommate because all the rooms are full this year and roommates have already been assigned. It will be up to you to find someone who's willing to switch with you." She doesn't add _which is not going to happen, so you better learn to deal_, but her tone is heavy with implication. "Or you could move out," she adds hopefully.

Rachel considers that. Seventy-five percent is a lot.

"Don't worry," Jesse says. "I realize that my amazing musical skill is pinging your inferiority complex like nothing else, but frankly ninety-five percent of this school is more talented than you, so you'd have to deal with it regardless."

Rachel gets up. "I'll start looking now," she says.

It's completely baffling to Rachel, but no one even _considers_ her request for a roommate switch.

In fact, they don't even wait for her to open her mouth before saying something like "Sorry, I have class" or "Sorry, I have a meeting with my adviser right now" which would be a lot more believable if a) classes had started and b) it weren't, you know, eleven PM.

When she finally returns to her room she's absolutely exhausted; she hasn't even unpacked yet. Jesse looks down from the top bunk; he's wearing flannel pajama pants and a wifebeater and his hair is all mussed. (It is, perhaps, mildly attractive).

"Any luck?" he says.

"Why are you here and not at UCLA?" She is not about to exchange any pleasantries.

"This school has a better music program, and I was offered a full scholarship, so." He smirks. "Although how you were accepted, I can't imagine."

She scowls, unzips her bag and takes out a pair of pajamas. "Just so we're clear - I can't believe I was ever attracted to you. Worst decision I've ever made. Although I was immature then, and blinded by -"

When she finishes talking she looks over at Jesse expectantly, waiting for a retort or snide remark, but he's already asleep.

When she tells her friends about her living situation they don't react at all appropriately. In fact, they all seem to find it hilarious.

Kurt says something about how it's a match made in heaven and Finn doesn't sound jealous in the slightest, just amused, and Santana says that if she were Jesse she'd just move out of the dorms completely, high rent prices be damned, but it does make for a good story.

Her dads display proper levels of outrage, but she mentions the seventy-five percent discount (a poor decision on her part) and her dad says something about buying a new car, and so there's no sympathy there either and definitely no possibility of her moving off-campus.

She's rooming with a boy who brought her a few weeks of crazy, delirious happiness for a few weeks in high school just to dash it all to the ground. He's attractive and intelligent and talented and ambitious and egotistical and doesn't miss a single opportunity to mock her.

She doesn't think the situation could get any worse.

The first day of instruction is _long_, and for once Rachel feels something akin to exhaustion, but it's - it's wonderful. She loves her Intro to Vocal Performance class, Ear Training is (a) great (chance to show off), and Intro to Music History is fascinating. She meets people who don't seem to be terrified of her (although, of course, that might change in the coming weeks). She buys an overpriced latte from a university kiosk. She buys her overpriced textbooks. College is shaping up to be _so much better_ than high school.

Then she opens the door to find Jesse typing away at his Macbook, and her mood plummets.

"Hello," he says. His voice is curiously subdued. "How was your day?"

She doesn't respond, just unpacks her bag and takes out her textbooks.

There's a silence that balloons into significance. Jesse's the first to break it.

"Look, Rachel," he says. He almost sounds _awkward_, which is kind of excellent, actually. "My parents wish for me to stay in the dorms despite being able to afford better, I've made inquiries and quite frankly most people would rather be consumed by an alligator than have to room with you, and I know you loathe me but let's just try to make this work, okay?"

"You certainly weren't trying very hard yesterday," she points out.

"I know. I'm kind of snide by default." He halts, and unwillingly adds, "It's a defense mechanism."

It's not what Rachel expected at all, this admission of weakness. There's a vulnerability in his face that's foreign, and he's an actor, a performer, it's probably all an elaborate ruse. So it's a surprise even to her when she says, "Well then. All right. I'll try."

The next morning she wakes up at nine AM and Jesse's already left.

There's a hard-boiled egg on her desk. Across its surface, in thick black sharpie, is scrawled the words _PEACE OFFERING_.

She looks at it for a moment. Jesse's nowhere in sight, so she lets herself smile, and before she realizes it she's laughing.

She has to put in hours of vocal practice for classes, of course, but she also sings for herself. She has Jesse's schedule (he provided her an i-Cal download without her even asking, what on _earth_) and she only sings when he's in class, because she has to deal with enough of his criticism already.

She's belting out _Mamma Who Bore Me_ when Jesse opens the door. Her face flushes.

"Class let out early," he offers as an explanation. "Ah. Um."

"Well," she says, "Go ahead. Tell me my singing is pathetic and laughable and that I might as well give up my dreams right now."

He's quiet for a moment.

"The... improvement is significant," he says. "Really." His voice is warm and sincere.

She gapes back at him, slack-jawed, like a fish. It's not attractive. "Oh," she says. "Thank you." Her usual eloquence has abandoned her, apparently.

"Although," he says, "There are definitely points you could improve on," and then, "but your voice does have a certain _je ne sais quois_," and _then_, "We could practice together sometime."

"All right," she concedes. "But you're not allowed to insult anything about me besides my singing."

"You said yes before we agreed on the finer details of our arrangement."

She glares at him as an instant reflex. (But maybe, just maybe, she's actually looking forward to it.)

She isn't the type to be bitter. There are a lot of adjectives that would describe her, she knows, some of them less than positive, but she's good at moving forward. She's received enough slushies in the face and hateful Myspace comments to develop fairly strong coping mechanisms; her reaction to defeat is usually to create inspirational Powerpoints and read how-to manuals. Basically: she gets over things because she has to.  
Jesse's different.  
She can't let him break her (a second time).

The first couple weeks go by surprisingly fast. They've fallen into a rhythm.

It's nice.

She sings and he tells her where her weak points are. He doesn't insult her quite as much as she expected. Sometimes they even sing duets and their voices are strong and work well together and, it turns out (she remembers), they like all the same songs.

He dislikes video games. It's kind of a refreshing change.

Sometimes she falls asleep at her desk because, surprise, she's a member of about a million university clubs and she's secretary or vice-president of all of them, which is pretty impressive for a freshman - but the point is she's absolutely exhausted all the time. When she wakes up there's always a blanket draped around her shoulders.

He leaves a hard-boiled egg on her desk every morning that he wakes up before she does. She still finds it funny although she'll never _ever_ tell him that.

Jesse's helping out with the choreography for one of those student performance affairs and she helps him with the storyboarding, because she's good at that. They fight about the details but it works out and the show goes smooth as honey.

Five weeks into the semester, Jesse's parents visit. She'd never met them when she and Jesse were actually dating, what with them being out of the country and everything, and she's surprised. They're very nice, normal people. They take Rachel and Jesse to lunch. They ask her regular polite questions and she gives them regular polite answers.

("Jesse dear," his mother says, "You still don't have a television?"

"Television is such a waste of time," they say together.

His dad grins. "Well," he says, "the two of you really suit each other."

They look at each other and look away.)

Sometime during mid-October, Rachel goes to her first party. She gets drunk, of course, it's the socially acceptable thing to do, on awful ninety-nine cent beer. Jesse holds her hair back as she heaves and vomits into the toilet bowl.

The ... domesticity of it all is overwhelming. She keeps waiting for that Machiavellian plot twist, like his return to kindness is all part of some underlying scheme, but every day passes over companionably. Pleasantly.

This is easing into dangerous territory.

It's during the Halloween weekend that things start to get really weird.

The Halloween weekend means dressing in forty-dollar "costumes" that consist of essentially a bra and panties with various embellishments glued on. It means downing awful beer and jungle juice in large doses. It means taking stupid pictures with people you'll probably never see again and making out with people you hope to god you'll never see again.

Rachel's rather looking forward to it. It's like a rite of passage.

A girl from her history class sends her an invite, so she goes in an appropriately revealing bumblebee costume. (Jesse said he had other important things to do.) She stays there long enough to down a couple of vodka-and-cokes, get groped by a good number of boys and one or two girls, and decide that yeah, this is definitely not her scene. She calls Jesse to request that he walk her home, but he's not picking up.

Weird.

She stumbles home - she's not used to five-inch-heels, okay - and opens the door, slurring drunkenly, "Hello, Jesse, you won't believe -"

And stops short.

There's a girl in the room. There's also Jesse. There's also a distinct lack of clothing and a _lot_ of tongue involved.

She stands there for a couple moments, but they don't seem to be stopping anytime soon, so she turns in a huff and heads toward the restroom. She takes out her phone and calls Kurt.

(She put Kurt on speed dial sometime after their first defeat at Nationals, when she was still dating Finn and visited the Hudson-Hummel household every day; sometimes Finn wouldn't yet be back from football practice and so instead she talked at Kurt, who after throwing a few standard insults at her, usually offered her organic fair-trade chocolate and some sound advice. And, after a few weeks, offered to help give her room a makeover, "for real this time".

The relationship didn't last, but the friendship did.)

It feels good ranting about Jesse, and maybe she's being a little too loud, but she's drunk, okay, that's a free pass for belligerence once in a while. "He didn't even _say_ anything," she says.

"Probably not easy to when his mouth was so preoccupied," Kurt points out.

"You," she says, staring at the phone as if the power of her glare could be transmitted like so, "are no help."

"You knew that when you hired me," Kurt deadpans, but his voice softens. "You're always so obvious, Rachel. Why don't you just tell him?"

"Tell him what," she says, but she'd forgotten to charge her phone that morning and it dies on her. Just her luck.

"I think," Rachel says the next morning, "we should establish some rules. About, you know, sexual shenanigans."

"I apologize for the indiscretion," Jesse says. "I'll put a sock on the doorknob next time."

"That's not why -," Rachel starts.

The pause is just a second too long. Jesse lifts an eyebrow, which is as much surprise as he'd let show.

"_Oh_," he says, and she didn't think it was possible to beam _smugly_ but he's managing it somehow, the way he manages to do everything. "I see how it is. You've fallen head over heels for me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I _knew_ you never got over me," Jesse says gleefully. "After all, I'm almost offensively perfect. Rachel, you need not repress your amorous sighs whenever you see me -"

Really, he should've been expecting that punch in the face.

Somehow, Jesse manages to become even more insufferable.

He constantly has an arm draped across her shoulders. He wanders around their room half-naked, and says things like, "feel free to swoon at the sight of my toned arms", and then insists that he's only partially clothed because it's _too warm_ (fact: it's late November).  
He buys her super-greasy Chinese takeout and doesn't laugh at the way she holds her chopsticks.  
He makes her mix CDs. She loves them.

He doesn't bring any more girls home. (Yeah, she calls it home now. What of it?)

It's the beginning of winter and it's getting cold. There's just a very slight possibility that at night they end up asleep in bed together, fully clothed, huddled under a comforter. It's absolutely freezing, okay? There's a possibility that they curl into each other closer than strictly necessary. There's a possibility that it becomes something like a pattern.

She feels like she's standing on the edge of a very steep precipice, and it'll only take the slightest wind to blow her over.

December comes around and they're done with their finals and oral presentations and projects, done with the semester. They sit cross-legged in the center of their room and uncork a bottle of champagne in celebration.

Neither of them suggests inviting other friends over. (Contrary to popular belief, they do have some.)

Between the two of them, they finish two-thirds of the bottle. She's just buzzed enough to think that what she's about to do is a good idea.

"I am very drunk," she announces. She glares at Jesse, daring him to disagree.

"Oh." He blinks once, twice. "All right...?"

"And I won't deny," she continues, "that you're attractive. That I am. Attracted. To you."

"Okay," he says, still looking a little lost, and "I know," but he's not moving, and "Look, Rachel -"

She makes a little frustrated noise because really, isn't he supposed to be the bright one here? She leans in and kisses him, to stop him from babbling, but it feels more like a beginning.

(As it turns out, she throws herself over).

His skin is all ruddy and warm from the alcohol. She runs her hand along his spine and he curls his fingers into the small of her back. It's not that different from how he touches her every day except his hands feel heavier, somehow, like they _exist_ more.

It's snowing outside and they don't have a heater, but it feels like a furnace inside their room, with the warmth of alcohol coursing through their systems, the heat of their bodies. They're kissing, all tongues and teeth and heat, and he shoves a leg between hers. They tangle themselves up in each other. He's hard and she's wet and they're dragging fingers through each other's hair. They peel each other's clothes off; there's a lot of biting and sucking and licking in the process.

It's a little like a competition, and considering it's _them_, who's surprised? He hooks a finger under her panties and _twists_ a little. She retaliates by curling her fingers around his dick and moving her hand in a steady rhythm. The scoreboard is pretty even.

They end up fucking right on the dorm room floor, putting those free condoms from the student health center to good use. He has her wrists pinned to the floor with his free hand (the other is massaging her breast, playing with her nipples). They're getting carpetburn from all the friction, angry red patches forming on their skin. They can barely feel it.

Turns out, they come within seconds of each other. Game, set, match.

She realizes it doesn't really matter who won, and it's like a revelation.

They spend the next day packing, nursing their carpet burns (which seriously _hurt_ when they're not preoccupied with getting it on) and Not Talking About It.

What's weird is that there are some things - a potted plant, a book - where they're not sure who, exactly, it belongs to. They leave those things be.

The silence isn't really uncomfortable, more pensive than anything, but it's still a relief when he clears his throat a little and says, "Rachel."

"Yes?" she says.

"You should - " He makes a sweeping hand gesture, indicating the things remaining, the things with shared ownership. "You should take these."

She blinks a little. "Why would I? I'm not going to use them again until next term."

"Oh," he says. "You're coming back next term?"

"Um, yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

He shrugs halfheartedly, not looking at her. Then she realizes - _oh_.

"It wasn't," she says. "I wasn't actually that inebriated," she says. "It wasn't goodbye sex, or whatever they call it," she says. "I couldn't stop myself," she says, and everything's pouring out of her like a dam has burst.

He laughs. It's clear like a bell.

"Just so you know," he murmurs, curling a hand around her wrist, "I'm not a very nice person."

Oh, she knows.

"Oh, I know." She smirks. "I'm tough as nails."

"But I'll try," he says, "I'll make everything up to you," and he says it like a promise.

On the bus back to Ohio she's going through her backpack, trying to find her book of crossword puzzles. Instead she finds a plastic egg.

She opens it to find a note that reads _Sorry, I was partway through #104 and had to finish it. Also if you lose this I will literally weep gallons of tears._

"Stupid," she says aloud, but she's smiling so hard it genuinely hurts.

When she arrives home (Lima, Ohio home), her parents are appropriately overjoyed to see her. They force her to stay home and eat homemade latkes and watch home videos of her three-year-old self and it's a full week before she gets to leave the house.

The Glee Club reunites at Artie's house. No one's changed very much, appearance-wise. They make a _massive_ gingerbread house and proceed to eat every crumb of it. They drink hot cocoa, they share stories. They make fun of Rachel as par for the course, and she takes it in stride. Good times are had.

They're getting ready to leave; Kurt's pulling on his (100% genuine leather, designer) boots when he says offhandedly, "New York has really mellowed you out."

"Has it," she says. It's not really a question.

"Jesse's mellowed you out," he amends, and laughs. "Rachel, you're not so bad after all."

A few seconds later: "Rachel, let go of me, I'm trying to breathe and you're wrinkling my jacket!"

They call. They email. They keep in touch.

She falls asleep every night with his voice in her ear.  
She remembers what it was like to fall for him, the first time: a heady rush of heat, of color, of adrenaline. The perfect boyfriend. The storybook romance.  
This second time came about much more quietly. He's no longer acting, at least not with her; he's not perfect and she's not perfect but their hands fit together nicely, as do their voices, as do themselves. This time around, they're making it work.  
Yeah, their relationship? Gold star material.

It's a few days later when her parents bring it up.

"Rachel," her dad says, "your father and I have been discussing - what's that boy's name?"

"Jesse."

"Right, your living situation with Jesse, and you've been telling us on the phone about how much he's insulting you and how he's bringing all these girls home and - is there something wrong?"

"No, no," she says, struggling to keep her face straight. "Continue."

"And we think it's remarkably brave of you to put up with that for an entire semester, so we decided we don't mind paying for an apartment off-campus in New York City. So at the beginning of the next term, we can just pick up any remaining things from your current dorm and move you out, how does that sound?"

"Yes, um." She pauses. "About that."


End file.
